


From the Ashes, an Ember

by opalmatrix



Category: SUTCLIFF Rosemary - Works, The Lantern Bearers - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Adoption, Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 20:03:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2241675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalmatrix/pseuds/opalmatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ambrosius goes to bring his brother's body home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Ashes, an Ember

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morganstern](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganstern/gifts).



> For morgenstern, who wanted to "read anything examining [Ambrosius'] character, whether from his POV or from someone else’s." Beta by **[smillaraaq](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Smillaraaq/)**

As evening drew near, Ambrosius, newly become Prince of Britain, came within sight of his brother's hall.

He and his companions were cold and wet from their hasty journey from Yr Wyddfa. They had just come past the long lake called Mymbyr, which gave its name to the valley, and had followed the stream that ran from it to the narrow River Llugwy. The scrubby forest thinned out to show fields cleared along a narrow stretch of land with a loop of the river around it on three sides, and there, on the slope that made the fourth side of the oblong of farmland, was the fortified house place, a villa of Roman design, built when the Roman camp a mile off was no longer needed, and made stronger against attack in recent years with an outer wall and a ditch below it. Ragged banners of mist drifted down from the mountains to the west, and a chill rain blew across the faces of the travelers. Only the faintest glimmers of light came to their eyes from the little houses and shops and the small chapel, clustered just over the plank bridge, at the foot of the rise below what had been Prince Utha's hunting lodge. 

Ambrosius' armor bearer Rhion, riding close beside him, shivered. "They say that this is the wettest land in all the kingdom, and today I can believe it. The last time I was here, it was midsummer."

Yes, thought Ambrosius: this would be a fair place under the summer sun, green and full of life. Now the river was the color of iron, and the sky not much lighter. "Well, we have only to make our way to the house to be out of this rain. I am certain Utha's folk stand ready to greet those who come with all the food and drink that is customary at such a time."

"Aye, my lord," said Rhion. His voice shook a little with the cold that made his teeth rattle. Ambrosius kicked his big bay Rufus into motion again, and the little party thudded down the muddy track to the little bridge. Everyone seemed to be snug within doors already, for it lacked less than an hour until full dark on this cold autumn day. Only the door of the little chapel stood open, with the light of what must be a single lantern flickering, flaring, and failing as the wet wind blew in.

The way up to the hall was roughly paved with slabs of stone, and the sound of their horses' hooves rang loudly in the damp dusk. "Hail, who comes to the house of Prince Utha?" called a gruff voice.

"Is that you, Valarius?" said Ambrosius. "It is I, Ambrosius, come to take my brother home again."

There was a little silence, and then a heavyset man came forward. "Sir, thank heaven that you are safely arrived!" Two young men came past him and held the horses for the guests to dismount.

"I came as soon as I could," said Ambrosius. "It was a hunting accident?"

"Aye, his third boar of the season. A huge black devil that killed three good dogs and broke a huntsman's leg before setting his wicked red eyes on the prince." Valarius blinked against the dampness in his eyes, and Ambrosius doubted it was just the rain. He put his arm around the older man's shoulder as they walked toward the door.

"Did he suffer much?" he said, low, so that neither Rhion nor the young men leading the horses would hear.

"I don't think so, my lord. A tush took him in the great vein inside of the thigh. The blood — "

Ambrosius nodded. With such a wound, Utha would have bled so copiously that he would have fainted almost at once.

"I daresay he was all but dead before we got him back to the house," said Valarius, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"There was then nothing you could do," said Ambrosius.

"Aye, my lord."

Utha's household met them at the doorway: stout, motherly Dwysil who kept the place in order, weather-beaten Teghun the huntmaster, and the rest. There was a smell of fresh bread, of venison in the pot, and of hot wine. Rhion, behind him, drew in a great breath and let it out again, with a sigh.

"Will you eat now, my Lord Ambrosius?" asked Valarius.

"In a short while. I would see my brother first."

They led him to the great bedchamber. Lamps on tall iron stands lit the resting place of the master of the house: Utha, Prince of Britain. He was laid in his bed, eyes and mouth closed and seemly, blanket of creamy wool and a richly embroidered coverlet spread over him, who could no longer feel the chill. Death had stolen the passions from Utha's face, leaving it strange to his brother's sight: no laughter, no anger, no lust rode those features any longer, leaving Utha looking distant and noble.

He looked, in fact, more like both Ambrosius and their father Constantine than he had in life.

Ambrosius dropped to his knees at the end of the bed. It was not something he thought about: it seemed to happen quite simply, as though he were unable to do anything else. The prayers that were usually said at such times came to mind, and after a moment, he rejected them. He clasped his hands and leaned his forehead on them and simply wished, with all his soul, that his brother were still with them. Failing that, he wished that he might carry out the work that his brother might have done, had he lived.

After some time, he realized that his knees were stiff and aching on the hard tesserae of the floor. He got up slowly and turned away from the body that was no longer his brother, back to the people who waited for him to lead them.

Supper was a quiet meal, although the table was richly and generously laden with all that a man could want on such a cold and rainy day: partridges stuffed with dried apples and bread, greens stewed with bacon, venison cooked for hours with ale and mushrooms, boiled eggs, fresh bread with honey, hot wine with spices, and at the meal's close, nuts and dried figs and little cakes. The great hall was filled with memories of Utha: the walls decorated with stag's horns and hunting spears, and wolfskins on the floor — the tokens of a man more at ease with the hunting trail than the battlefield. As the wine came round again, the men seated around the table began to talk a little, telling stories of the prince's life, of more successful hunts, of battles past.

Now that Ambrosius' belly was full, he began to feel the weariness of the day's journey in foul weather upon him. He was wondering when he would be able to leave the table with propriety when he became aware of a small tumult in the direction of the kitchen: women's scolding, hushed and strained, and a treble crying and wailing, less successfully stifled.

"What is that?" he asked Dwysil, who was coming around with a fresh pitcher of hot wine.

She flushed and cast a glance toward the noise. "Sorry I am that you are disturbed in your grief, my lord," she said. "It's just the boy."

"What boy?"

"The prince's boy. The one he got these four years and more, after a happier hunting trip. The mother died: you'll have heard of him?"

"I have," said Ambrosius, slowly. He had forgotten until that moment that his brother had a son.

"I'll tell his nurse that she must take him from the kitchen, supper or no," said Dwysil.

"No need, for my sake," said Ambrosius. 'I have a mind to see my brother's son."

Dwysil looked doubtful. Ambrosius could guess what was in her thought: a wretched whelp with a runny nose was no fit company for her new prince. "In truth, I think that tonight, men will forgive such a whim," he said. "This child is the only near kin I have left."

At that, she could do nought but nod, for it was no more than the truth. Ambrosius made his excuses to his dinner companions and left the room, following Dwysil out onto a little colonnade and then into a capacious stone-flagged kitchen. A thin, dark woman with her hair tied up in a striped cloth was seated on a stool before the great hearth, rocking the child, whose wails had diminished to hoarse sobs.

"Nerys, look: here is the Prince Ambrosius, come to see his brother's boy," said Dwysil.

"My lord," said Nerys, her eyes wide. She stood and tried to get the child to stand also, but he had no wish to leave her warm lap and greet this stranger. He clutched at her and buried his face against her gown. "Artos, that's enough! Behave yourself for the prince!"

"No," said the hoarse little voice firmly, hardly muffled by Nerys' skirts.

"Artos!" said Dwysil, horrified, but Ambrosius shook his head and sat down on the hearthstones.

"They call you Artos?" he asked the child.

The child looked around at that. He nodded, once, and let go of Nerys' skirt with one hand. His face was round, topped with a shock of barley-colored hair, and his shadowed eyes were pale blue.

"Are you crying for the prince, your father?"

He thought about that. "I don't want that old bread and milk. Everyone is being stupid."

That caused frowns and murmuring from above. Ambrosius held up his hand for silence. "You must have patience with them, Artos. They are sad because the master of the house has died. Is it not so, Dwysil?"

The boy let go of his nurse at that and looked up at the two women. After a moment, Dwysil nodded. "The prince speaks truly, lad."

Artos looked back at the visitor. "Are you sad too?"

"Surely I am. Your father was my brother."

"My father was the prince. The prince of all this land."

"Indeed he was."

"How can you be the prince?"

"Someone needs to be. It seems that it must be me."

Artos considered this and then nodded. "He said I could have a hound pup when I turned seven years. And now he is gone."

"Perhaps, if the huntsman agrees, you could still have your pup, once you are old enough."

"From you?"

"From me. But first you must grow big enough to care for a pup. And you will never grow big if you do not eat your supper."

Artos put out his lip. "It is cold and nasty."

"Perhaps, if you ask nicely, and let Nerys wipe your face, she will make you a fresh bowl."

The boy considered this and finally turned to the nurse. "Nonna, will you please make me a new bowl of bread and milk? With honey? I can feed the other one to Rhoswen."

Dwysil frowned. "Nerys, he has not been well behaved."

"His father has died," said Nerys, softly. "Would that our sorrow could be soothed by a spoonful of honey!" She looked down at her fosterling. "I will make you another supper — yes, with honey — and you must eat it all. Then you may go and give the other bowl to the bitch, but then you must bring the bowl back. Do not stop to play with the pups: it is already past time for you to be in bed."

He did not smile, but his face lightened all the same. "Yes, Nonna!"

Someone called for Dwysil then, so she went off back to the great hall. Nerys wiped the boy's face with a clean rag. She put milk in a little pipkin and set it to heat above the coals, then went back to the honeycakes she was arranging on a platter. Artos picked up a bit of burnt wood and started tracing lopsided little circles on the hearthstone. "Nerys is not my mother, you know," he said. "My mother is dead."

"But Nerys cares for you."

"Yes."

Ambrosius looked into the fire. He himself could barely recall his mother's face, even though he knew that he had been in her care at this child's age. How sad that this boy would grow to manhood knowing neither father nor mother. How sad that Utha had left so little of himself behind, for his brother and for Britain.

Presently Nerys came back, with broken bread and a little honey in a bowl, and poured the warm milk over it all. "Now you must eat it, Bear Cub."

"Bear Cub?" said Ambrosius

She smiled. "Because of his name."

"And because I am strong as a bear!" said the lad, swallowing a bite. Indeed, he did have the look of a bear: rounded and yet not at all soft; solid, rather. He did not resemble Utha in the least, but he looked to be strong and spirited. He ate most of his bowlful and then, his first hunger sated, looked up at his newly discovered kinsman. "Do you have many hounds?"

"Not as many as your father had, but enough to spare one, once you are grown enough."

"I _am_ eating my supper." He promptly put another spoonful into his mouth.

"So I see."

"I will grow big and strong, and have a pup."

"Yes. In fact, if you are good for Nerys and eat your supper, and go to bed, and do the same on the morrow, I will take you with me two days hence, and you can see my hounds."

The child's eyes grew round, and he dropped his spoon. "What? When? Truly?"

Ambrosius' mouth twitched, but he kept his expression serious. "Truly. If you are very good for your nurse until it is time for the journey back to Yr Wyddfa, you may come with me, and live in my house, and some day have a hound pup."

Nerys stood stock still at the kitchen table. Ambrosius could see that her eyes were glittering with tears. Artos followed his gaze and scrambled to his feet. "Nonna? May I go?"

She sniffed and took a cloth from her girdle to dab at her eyes and nose. "Your royal kinsman has promised that you will, and it is for him to say. Surely you will go. But now you must eat, and go to bed."

The boy sat down again and crammed the last few spoonfuls into his mouth, chewing and swallowing as fast as he could. 

"Don't choke," said Ambrosius, and now he could not stop himself from smiling. Artos sprang to his feet again and handed his bowl to Nerys.

"I am going to bed now!" he announced.

"There's a good lad," said Nerys.

"Wait," said Ambrosius. "Weren't you going to feed the other bowlful to your father's bitch? Remember, if you are to have a hound pup, you must show me that you know how to care for a dog."

"Oh, yes!" Artos snatched up the other bowl and ran out the door. Nerys smiled at Ambrosius.

"Thank you, my lord prince. I was wondering what would become of him."

"Thank _you_ , for letting him go," said Ambrosius, and he was surprised by how much he meant it.

 


End file.
